Of Sylvia, Echoes, and Empty Rooms
I had gone over to my neighbor’s house to borrow a push-cart on the day I had to move back into college. We talked, as we always do. Of India, of past summers, of past lives. In a strange way, this faded woman (who had lived the better part of her years alone, with a dog or a bird or a cat to keep her company) reminded me of my mother, even though Amma did marry, did have children, did move on with her life. (But – I cannot say if my mother ever stopped being alone.)
As I was preparing to leave with my cart, she sent out a gentle warning to me: Things – don’t ever get attached to things. They tie you down and swallow you whole.
I knew what she meant. I avoid collecting things for the same reason. There are very few things I consider dear. The only thing I had brought from home to my college room was a box of old letters.
I paused, reflecting silently. I turned back and asked her a question I often think cynically about. “And people?”
It was her turn to pause, though it was slightly shorter than mine. Well – people are no different, she replied, her speech tinged with a remnants of a Tennessee drawl. Eventually, they leave too, in fashion or another.
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